Tuesday, November 14, 2023

Writer’s Block

I could feel the sweat dripping off of my forehead. The truth was that I had to think of something quick. My book deadline was approaching and my readers yearned for more. Speaking to my therapist, I did everything to blockout my evil thoughts and lustful desires. I was turning into a reck. I sat in my back room for hours searching for something. Thinking about every fabric entwined in my fickle imagination. I just sat there in front of the typewriter. Running my fingers through my now beard, I hadn’t shaved or showered in days. There was paper everywhere. Searching for page twenty-one of the murder scene, I began to read.

Her passion led her down an empty path. Lonely and superstitious, she sat in solitude. Abstinence had become her preferred method for pleasure but her obsessed neighbor couldn’t help his lust for her so he often watched her through his window. 

Ag, no, the readers want clean thoughts, something magical. Something to live for that will purify the imagination. I scrambled and stumbled across page thirty-five.

Slowly easing through her backdoor she watched as Tabitha begged for mercy while crawling slowly attempting to flee to safety, but Roxy wanted her revenge. Tabitha had driven her over the edge. Feeling the funk of hatred eat away at her thoughts she put the knife to Tabitha’s throat.

“You slept with my husband, my brother, and my father. Now I must purify your blood,” Roxy said while whispering in Tabitha’s ear as she lunged her kitchen knife through her back.

Wait, let me gather my thoughts, I have to focus on something that will give people some form of pure vibes. Something that will give them strength. Battling with my thoughts I fell to the floor. 

“Oh my God, I think I’m having a stroke,” I whispered to myself.

Shaking in the middle of the floor, drowning in paper, I notice an owl in the tree outside of my window.

“You’re a mess,” the owl says.

I’m like, “Oh my God, I’m losing my mind.”

“Get up off of the f*** floor you bum. Cuz that’s what you’re going to be if you don’t bow down to your s***y publisher,” the owl said as he just wouldn’t stop trashing me. 

Determined, I began to write about my dreams. I created a character that couldn’t use his arms or legs. To be honest, I don’t know where these thoughts were coming from but the more I wrote the better I felt, and while looking out of the window there was that gray and brown owl again. 

“You owe me for saving your sorry a**,” he said.

Ignoring him, I just kept writing. My characters were disabled but they had one strength and that’s the fact that they wouldn’t give up. They never complained, they lived life and didn’t give up on themselves. Realizing my masterpiece, I went to close the window but decided to have a conversation with the owl.

“So what’s your name?” I asked.

“The angry owl, now tell me, who’s your daddy punk b****?” The owl replied.

“Why are you so angry?” I asked.

The owl said nothing. He flew into my apartment and turned into a woman.

“Hi, honey.” 

I couldn’t believe my eyes as she got closer to me.

“It’s me, your wife. Now wake-up, breakfast is on the table,” she said.

Seeing my finished manuscript on the table, it was like I’d entered a whole new world. I had literally written myself back to sanity. I had a wife and a family. I’d met my deadline and my book was a best seller. The disabled owl was the people in my story. The people with disabilities. The people who got up everyday accepting who they were. These were the people who appreciated an author who wrote about their struggles. My writer’s block left me when I wrote for a cause and once I devoted the rest of my life to be the author who wrote for the disabled, for some odd reason I never had writer’s block again. I had a purpose and my audience needed me. 

There I sat, every night with the angry owl sitting outside of my window.

“You’re a nasty old man to think I would turn into your wife,” the owl said.

“Honey, take a break, and come in here and lay with me,” I heard my wife calling from the other room.

“Go in there with your wife and stop looking at me. I’m just an angry old bird. I can’t do anything for you but give you something to think about. Go spend time with your wife,” the owl said.

Soaking in the victorious feeling of finishing up another book I decided to listen to the owl. I took a break from writing and spent time with my family and never had writer’s block again. The more I fed my spirit the more the thoughts kept coming and the owl was just another character in the fabric of my work.

Realizing that I’d now had a new pet friend, I decided to write about him too. I wrote my first children’s book called the Angry Old Owl and for some reason when I wrote it the owl wasn’t so angry anymore. I couldn’t help but notice him in the backroom now on my couch away from his tree branch reading my book with his signature glasses on grinning from ear to ear.

I guess the little furry dude just needed some attention.

The End

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